Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  It took several minutes to reach the concrete hardstands near the base’s main buildings adjacent to the north eastern end of the runway, during which time its KC-10A tanker had also landed and come to a halt at the far end of the strip. The Boeing (formerly McDonnell Douglas) Extender was a highly capable in-flight refuelling aircraft derived from the same company’s successful Realtime DC-10 airliner. With a span of 50 metres, a length of 54 and an empty weight of almost 110 tonnes, it was a giant when compared to anything of Second World War vintage, although it too was nevertheless dwarfed by the Galaxy all the same.

  Rupert Gold was one of the first to make his way out onto the tarmac as the C-5M lowered its rear loading ramp, and he was immediately assaulted by the intensity of the local climate. The heat he’d considered excessive in Sydney two days before was nothing compared to the cloying, oppressive 80% humidity that had engulfed him the moment the doors had opened. The weather report he’d acquired prior to arrival had given the current temperature as seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit – approximately 24° C – which might well have been a quite pleasant, balmy afternoon, had it actually been afternoon.

  Instead, combined with such high levels of humidity with just two hours until midnight, local time, it was almost crippling to a man accustomed to far cooler environments. He found himself perspiring almost immediately and his breath seemed to catch in his throat, as if the air itself was so thick that his lungs were having difficulty moving it about.

  A roaring sound over and above that of the Galaxy’s own dying engines suddenly thundered overhead, and he glanced up to catch sight of a third and comparatively much smaller aircraft come to a complete standstill almost directly above them, hovering in place perhaps twenty metres to the east as its undercarriage extended and it began to descend slowly toward earth atop a howling fury of jet exhaust.

  The two-seat F-35E-variant of the Lockheed-Martin Lightning II was just about as unique an aircraft as anyone was likely to find either in Realtime or otherwise. A one-off prototype created from the single-seat STOVL (Short-Take-Off and Vertical Landing) F-35B model, it had been created jointly at the request of Thorne’s Hindsight Team and in response to interest from some potential overseas buyers at the time – the Israeli Air Force being the major source of said interest.

  Like the Galaxy and the Extender, it too was painted in standard RAF/RAAF Desert Pattern camouflage, and again like the others there were already quite noticeable areas where sections or strips had peeled away to reveal an overall pale-grey surface beneath. Repainting of all three had become a constant headache for the Tocumwal ARDU. Work that should have lasted months without any real sign of wear and tear invariably instead began to show evidence of degradation within just weeks of application, a situation that was exacerbated immensely if the aircraft were actually flown.

  Trumbull had once remarked – only half-joking – that it was as if the aircraft were ‘rejecting’ the new colours, and it was true that any newly-applied coats did seem to peel away far too easily as if they were consciously attempting to revert to their original camouflage scheme. He suspected that there was most likely some quite straight forward scientific explanation for it that centred on the fact that all three aircraft had come from seventy years in the future, but it seemed somewhat unsettling all the same.

  The group captain had petitioned his HQ several times for permission to return all three planes to their original appearance, saving a huge amount of wasted paint and resources into the bargain, but Melbourne had remained resolute: all RAAF aircraft were to display uniform camouflage schemes appropriate to their theatre of operations: a scheme that in this case was identical for both the North African theatre and that used in the southern military districts of the Australian Mainland.

  Trumbull was climbing from the F-35’s cockpit now as the turbine wound down and ground crew wheeled a small set of steps up beside it to assist. Rupert had covered most of the intervening distance by the time the group captain’s boots hit the tarmac, mopping at his brow with a quite sodden handkerchief as Trumbull lifted the helmet from his head and regarded the man with a wry smile.

  “I do believe we were both under the misapprehension that Australian heat was the worst one could experience,” the pilot observed ruefully, his own short-cropped hair damp with perspiration as small rivulets trickled down across his vision. “Much as I’d never wish any danger on Max or Eileen, Old Chap, I should be very unimpressed if this whole thing turns out to be a wild goose chase.”

  “You and I both,” Rupert agreed fervently. “Who was it insisted I come along...?” That remark drew a snort of laughter as he made light of his own determination to accompany the flight. In the relative comfort of his Sydney office – or in the Officers Mess at Tocumwal for that matter – the whole thing had seemed rather a clear-cut affair. Standing there in that oppressive heat in the middle of a humid Ceylon night however, staring at the distant lights of Trincomalee across the black waters of China Bay, things didn’t seem quite so simple at all.

  The gathering had become quite boisterous in a friendly and genial kind of way. Montgomery had made the unwitting mistake of assigning two Australian guards to watch Thorne, and it hadn’t taken long for either of them to end up as pleasantly drunk as the rest. A trio of old 44-gallon drums had been set up not far from the pair of Sentinel tanks and spaced evenly to give good warmth from the crackling bonfires that burned within all three, glowing embers whirling up into the dark sky as most of the testing crews and a few select guests found comfort there against the cold desert night.

  A lot of that time was spent with Thorne and Lloyd seated beside each other on a pair of wooden packing crates, playing and singing together for the entertainment of the group... a group that grew as the night wore on and eventually included Neville Knowles, Reg Anderson and a selection of his HQ staff. The tank and Tunguska crews were also present of course, along with all of the testing entourage Thorne had brought with him from the United States (although a significant proportion of those men were also Australians)

  The songs played were a broad and rather eclectic selection, decided on by general consensus between the two singers and with a few extra requests also forwarded by some of Thorne’s crew. During the last two years spent working together, Thorne and Lloyd had found a great deal of spare time which had regularly included ‘jam’ sessions to pass the hours. The pair were at least a generation apart in musical taste for the most part but there’d been some crossover and common ground for all that, and each had been ready to learn from the other. In the process, they’d also managed to become a quite accomplished and rather polished duo in their own right, both now far more practised with their voices and instruments that they’d ever been in Realtime.

  Their last ‘set’ of songs had included Green Day’s Good Riddance (The Time of Your Life) and Wake Me Up When September Ends (chosen by Lloyd); Redgum’s Diamantina Drover and Cold Chisel’s Flame Trees (Thorne); and had also included a few requests from the group including versions of the traditional Australian folk songs such as Waltzing Matilda and Botany Bay.

  For her part, Eileen elected to stand apart during most of the celebrations, keeping a keen eye on Thorne from a distance as she nursed a can of beer that would mostly go flat rather than be consumed. The unexpected news regarding Max’s situation had left her not at all in the mood for revelry of any kind, and in this instance at least, she was glad of the fact that Thorne seemed so involved with the rest of the group that he was paying her no real attention.

  “A long way from ‘Old England’ to Botany Bay, and that’s the truth!” Nick Ingalls observed with a faint slur to his speech as the song finished and a rousing cheer of appreciation went up he raised his drink in acknowledgement along with the rest of his small group, all seated directly in front of the two men playing. “A lot further for some than others...!” Most of the men present missed the veiled meaning in those words, but those who knew the true origins of the Hindsight Unit most certainly did
not. “How about another o’ those songs from where you boys come from...!”

  “I think I’ll have another drink first,” Thorne declared loudly for all to hear, throwing a quick and slightly pointed glance in Lloyd’s direction regarding Ingalls’ last remark. The shrug he received in return most definitely contained a healthy dose of ‘what-did-you-expect?’ mixed in with ‘what-do-you-want-me-to do about it?’, making it quite plain he considered Max’s own indiscreet revelations as to their origins to be the cause.

  “Big bloody help you are,” he grinned back, not willing to allow his own good mood to be spoiled as an unopened can was handed across from the group at the front. “We’ll think up some more tunes for you blokes,” he continued, directing his words now toward Ingalls and the rest. “Maybe a few we used to like singing around the campfire, camping up on the banks of the Murray when I was younger.”

  “On the Murray River, you say, sir?” That question came from another in Ingalls’ little group: SGT Arthur Morris, the radio operator with LTCOL Anderson’s HQ staff.

  “You betcha,” Thorne grinned back, cracking the can open and making a big show of taking his first drink as he swayed slightly back and forth. “Gimme a guitar, a campfire and a patch of riverbank any day...”

  “Whereabouts didya used to camp, sir? I come from up Tocumwal way meself.”

  “Never mind the ‘sir’ business while we’re enjoying ourselves... Sergeant... Morris...” Thorne shot back, still smiling as he leaned forward and strained to read the embroidered black name tag over the left breast pocket of the man’s DPCU camouflage tunic. “Max or just ‘mate’ will do...” He downed another gulp of beer. “I moved up from Melbourne to near Robinvale when I was a kid – used to camp a variety of spots from Belsar Island down to Barmah Forest, near Echuca. Tocumwal area’s good, though,” he added quickly, thinking more about times long past in his own memory that were still years in the future for most. “Cobram too… and Yarrawonga’s all right as well. Some nice spots right along that part of the river.”

  “Nothin’ like campin’ with yer dad, eh...?” Morris ventured, also smiling as he recalled pleasant events in his own childhood and too drunk to notice the momentary flicker of stark hatred that flickered across Thorne’s features as he spoke, although the reaction was noted by a very interested Eileen Donelson.

  “No... not really...” He countered haltingly, recovering the facade of good humour quickly and moving on. “Most of my time by the river was spent after I was out of school...” He forced a full-fledged grin back into his expression and raised his own can in mock salute. “Nothing like time spent with friends though, eh?” He received a general cheer of agreement from the mob, but Ingalls raised another question as the noise died off.

  “What about you, lieutenant... where’re you from?”

  “Me...?” Lloyd returned with a bemused grin, surprised at the interest. “Another Victorian, born and bred...” another cheer rose up from some of the Australians in the crowd “...Come from a tiny little town north-east of Melbourne called Marysville.”

  “Corporal Mackenzie...!” An NCO from the 2/28th called out loudly from somewhere off to the left. “Narbethong, here...!”

  “Hey...!” Lloyd raised his own beer in salute then. “Just ‘down the road’ from us...!” He cocked his head for a moment in thought as an old memory stirred. “Not the Mackenzies that used to run the old General Store on the Maroondah Highway there?” Another small mountain township, Narbethong lay just twelve kilometres south of Marysville. Lloyd couldn’t recall any of the faces, but he remembered the name well enough from his childhood. Replaced many years before by a small café for Devonshire Teas that also sold locally-made curios on the side (at wildly inflated prices), it lived only as a distant memory of his past.

  “That’s us, all right,” the corporal replied, beaming broadly as his mates all chorused their drunken appreciation. “Don’t worry though... no bloody bushfire’ll keep us down... mum ‘n dad are gonna rebuild the store: we’ll be up and running again.”

  “Ahh, crap...” Thorne breathed softly, immediately throwing a sideways glance at his musical partner and seeing the colour drain from the man’s cheeks after that last remark.

  “How...?” Lloyd started to speak but lost his train of thought almost immediately, his face tightening as he desperately fought against allowing tears to form in the corners of his eyes. “How did you...?”

  The change in Lloyd’s expression was also spotted by those in the nearer groups, and the sudden chill it brought to the general mood quickly spread throughout the gathering. It was something almost instinctive… a collective gasp of drawn breath that was the unmistakeable sensation of dread in the age-long split second after the well-meaning office fool, upon noting a colleague’s arrival one morning dressed in an unexpected suit and tie, opens in jest with the unthinking question ‘What’s up with the suit; you going to a funeral…?’ Even Eileen clearly recognised something significant had occurred, and she began to move quickly forward toward the pair.

  Lieutenant Lloyd had been SAS prior to his departure from Realtime. He’d been trained to be hard as nails and cunning as a fox. He’d also been trained to think, and had spent a lot of time studying world and military history. His own local history was something he’d never taken as much interest in however, and most of his adult life had been spent away from his childhood home.

  “Steady, mate... he means Black Friday...” Thorne whispered quickly, leaning in close. “There were massive bushfires there in January of ‘Thirty-Nine... Narbethong was all but wiped out and Marysville was hit back then too...” He laid a steadying hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “He’s got no idea... none of ‘em do…”

  They may not have known exactly what was going on but neither were most of those present particularly stupid, and adding up the ‘two-plus-two’ of conversation subject matter and the SAS officer’s reaction had produced a pretty damning answer of ‘four’ with relative speed, particularly with many of the Australian troops for whom experience of bushfires had also been all too real at some stage during their own lives.

  There were some, of course, who weren’t as quick on the uptake as others.

  “Ah, give us another song then,” another, quite obviously drunk voice jeered from somewhere toward the rear of the group, by one of the flaming drum-fires. “Who cares about bleedin’ ‘bushfires’ anyway… there’s a bloody war on!” The accent was Northern English, not that that mattered in itself, but having the subject dealt with so dismissively by someone who’d almost certainly never experienced anything remotely like an Australian bushfire caused the instinctive ‘hackles’ of every Aussie present to ruffle in indignant anger.

  A hush fell across the rest of the group, and the hand on Lloyd’s shoulder felt the man’s entire body stiffen in that moment. As he began to rise, its grip tightened substantially and, not without some effort, forced him back down onto his seat. In that proverbial ‘calm before the storm’, Max Thorne used the leverage he was exerting holding the shaking Lloyd seated to aid his own movement, placing his guitar carefully on the ground as he rose to his feet in a movement that wasn’t so much ‘slow’ as it was inexorable.

  Cold, narrowed eyes sought out the man who’d called out those words, his steely gaze piercing the flickering darkness and instantly finding its target with an accuracy it was rumoured officers secretly trained for. His search was aided somewhat by some of the smarter and/or less drunk standing about the luckless individual instinctively edging away slightly and giving him space.

  “Want me to tell you the Siege of London was ‘no big deal’, soldier?” Thorne demanded loudly, his words hard as stone against the cold silence. The drunk tank driver had more sense at least in that moment than to make any remark and instead stood stock still, eyes locked straight ahead as he came to attention under the full glare of an officer of vastly superior rank that was well-and-truly being pulled in that moment.

  “I was fortunat
e enough not to be anywhere near the fires that ripped through Victoria that day…” Thorne continued, quite calculating and intentionally making no direct reference to which bushfire he was referring. He didn’t see it as particularly relevant that he was in fact referring to the devastating Realtime Victorian fires of February 2009 – fires that had destroyed the only family Evan Lloyd had ever known – rather than those of January 13, 1939 that had come to be known a ‘Black Friday’. “My mum however was living on the outskirts of Melbourne at the time and even though she was relatively safe, the stories she told me were bad enough.” Although ‘second-hand’, the events had been burned into his memories and he shuddered as he recalled what he’d heard, as much for how badly affected it had left his mother and many others as for the horror of it alone. “Hundreds of fires that day, thousands of homes lost and close to two hundred dead... seventeen hundred square miles of Victorian forests, farmland and towns burned out. You have any idea how big that is? Three or four times the size of London… maybe more.”

  His glare didn’t stray from the subject of his wrath for a moment, yet he was nevertheless well aware that all eyes were now upon him, including those of Eileen and Evan Lloyd. His hand still rested on the SAS officer’s shoulder from his standing position, and although he could feel the man shaking slightly he also felt Lloyd’s opposite hand come to rest upon his, as if lending support to both men and perhaps also giving a completely unheeded suggestion to calm down.

  Eileen had halted halfway to them as he’d risen, momentarily mesmerised by the sudden rage in his eyes, and there was now no way for her to intervene. Some small part of her mind was telling her that there was more than just the remark about bushfires in this – much more – and it was probably pure bad luck on the part of the English tank man that his drunken, throwaway heckle had become the trigger that had unleashed the onslaught.